Burger Bars and Bullet Wounds
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: What with years spent apart, a missing father and a dead girlfriend the boys are struggling to connect. Set early season one. Rated for some language.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: A hunt in a McDonalds...no way. Set straight after 'Wendigo' so no spoilers. Warning for some bad language and I might have indulged my passion for run-on sentences._

_'Sleepy Sam' thanks to Adara-chan67 for her made of awesome beta job. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or the Winchester brothers but they sure as hell fire own me. _

**Burger Bars and Bullet Wounds - Part One.**

It's not that Sam hates McDonalds. He hates clowns, hates Ronald McDonald with his freaky painted face and bright red old lady perm. The burgers are almost appetizing enough to compensate for the soggy, heavily salted fries and Dean always insists on a side order of golden nuggets which do actually taste pretty damn good even though Sam is mildly disgusted by them, unable to stop his brain from whirring away speculating over what part of the chicken the nuggets have actually come from. Oh, yeah, how could he have forgotten? _"__G__olden nuggets; a yummy blend of chicken lips and that little spot right above the chicken's ass hole,"_ or so Dean had told him when Sam had been six years old and too young to know any better. A time when Sam pretty much used to believe _everything_ that came out of Dean's mouth.

And looking back, Dean used to eagerly gobble up all the nuggets from the grease**-**stained cardboard container with a look of victory on his face when Sam blatantly refused to eat any, his little bottom lip quivering in a _Dean, please_ _don't make me_ way.

So, it's not that Sam hates McDonalds; he just hates the fact that the nearest thing he gets to healthy eating these days is a limp piece of soggy lettuce and a wafer-thin slice of anemic tomato. He can practically hear the _slurp, gurgle, slurp_ of his arteries clogging.

Dean is a different story. Dean is clearly in seventh heaven, ketchup and mayo smeared over his mouth like he's trying for that whole Ronald McDonald clown look and blissful serenity perched on his face as he chows down, seemingly determined as always on loading his stomach until he reaches the point of 'post-Christmas-Dinner-ready-to-burst-ness.'

Sam puckers his lips in a disgusted expression as he watches Dean lean back in his seat, pull up his t-shirt and start patting at his exposed stomach as though it were Old Yeller. "So, you got anything yet?" Sam asks as Dean returns to Hoovering up the rest of his food.

Dean pulls the ravaged remains of his Quarter Pounder out of his condiment-covered mouth and looks momentarily surprised, as though he'd forgotten Sam was sitting on the chair just across the table from him. "Any what?"

"Anything showing up on the EMF?"

"No." Dean replies assuredly and then coolly sticks a hand in his jacket pocket to turn the monitor on. A few seconds later and the thing hasn't clicked once. "But then we should come back tonight."

"Sounds good to me. Uh, Dean, you've got a little..." Sam motions vaguely in the direction of his brother's face.

Dean raises his jacket sleeve and proceeds to rub the ketchup/mayo combo across his cheek and up into his short sideburns. "It gone?"

Sam huffs, eye-rolls, lifts his soda to his mouth, clamps down his lips around the clear bendy straw and snorts. "Yeah dude, it's totally gone."

XXX

A haunted McDonalds. Sam wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't found the hunt himself within the creased pages of a Denver newspaper. It had only been a tiny article, almost sidelined into obscurity by several verbose columns speculating whether or not Jennifer Anniston had succumbed to the allure of Botox and joined the ranks of the frozen faced Hollywood elite, along with the obligatory 'before and after' snapshots. The article stated that several staff members working in a local McDonalds restaurant had reported sightings of a shadowy figure hovering above the tables. The restaurant's bright fluorescent ceiling lights had been flickering on and off almost daily and several objects, namely a large spatula and some plastic napkin holders, had been seen moving of their own accord.

The whole flickering lights and moving objects shebang was so classic that it practically screamed _poltergeist_ at Sam but the shadowy figure was something which Sam found a little trickier to stick a label on. Restless spirit, maybe? Death-echo? Surely it couldn't be some form of screwy demon with a craving for a McChicken Sandwich? _Jesus_, Sam really fucking hoped not.

Dean had been utterly delighted at the prospect of a hunt which involved scoping out a fast-food joint for signs of ectoplasm because Dean will quite happily munch one of those tasty little chocolate-covered donuts with one hand whilst carrying a salt round loaded shotgun in the other, multi-tasking and all that jazz. But Sam had remained stubbornly dissatisfied and nonplussed by the whole concept. "_I mean, come on Dean, who haunts a McDonalds __anyway? Some acne-ridden teenager who took a nose dive into the deep fat fryer whilst cooking up a batch of onion rings or maybe some disgruntled employee who never earned that fo__u__rth star on their name badge and was really fucked off about it?" _

"_Sammy, you're just pissy that it's not some run-of-the-mill spooky old haunted house with a turn-of-the-century lady in white for you to moon over."_

In the end Sam had been reasonable enough to accept that it might not necessarily be the overly colorful McDonalds restaurant—filled with furniture designed by someone on an acid trip—which was the cause of all the supernatural activity but rather the land the building stands on. Four hours spent deep in the racks of a dusty library basement looking through old books with pages as fine as rice paper and Sam had discovered that the site of the restaurant had indeed been a late 17th Century burial ground which had been built over as Denver City expanded. Okay, so maybe the hunt wasn't going to be as much of a let down as he had first thought.

XXX

A night hunt often means an afternoon of free time to kick back, relax, drink a beer and throw some darts; at least that's what it means to Dean. Dean had no doubt that for Sam it probably means time for more research or time for doing his pain-in-the-ass little brother routine. Or maybe, more often than not, a mixture of the two.

Sam has been especially grouchy lately, his face scrunched up all the time, like he's just got a whiff of a particularly foul smell and when he's talking to Dean about Dean, there's always a dash of extra-whiny Sammy added to his tone for good measure. _Dean, you're such a friggin' pig, can't you eat with your mouth closed? Dean, you've used up all the toilet roll – again__.__ Dean, have you hidden my tampons?_ Okay, so maybe Sam never actually said the last line but Dean's was still waiting for it to happen, any day now.

Dean desperately wants to find a bar. The safe dark confines of four walls wherein, for a few hours at least, he can be anyone he wants to be. To the hot chick nursing a cocktail at the bar he's a Marine enjoying some rare R&R time, so hustle up, little lady, because shore leave ends soon. To the mid-life-crisis jerk playing pool he's a rookie, never held a pool cue in his life, but he'll still walk away from the table with a swagger in his step and a couple of hundred dollars wedged in his back pocket. To the old guy he stands shoulder to shoulder with at the men's room urinals he's an ear for them to prattle to, he'll listen to them bitch about their wives, nod his head and say, "Amen to that, brother," even though he's never been married and the longest intimate relationship he's ever had has been with his own right hand.

Dean wants to find a bar; he doesn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon hanging around in their motel room, always watching what he says in case he tramples unwittingly onto the subject of Jessica like a blind guy dumped out in the middle of a minefield. Only a week ago he'd made a throwaway comment about how the old lady serving them coffee in a tiny roadside diner smelt overpoweringly of flowers. "Lilacs," Sam had corrected as his face crumpled like a house of cards sent tumbling down. Dean didn't know what the link with Jessica was, he just knew that there was one and somehow he'd gone and put his size tens right in it.

Their motel is the same cheap fleabag joint they always stay in, with rooms available to rent by the hour, broken air conditioning and a television that only picks up two channels - and the reception usually sucks. But then there are still hours of fun to be had with 'guess which actor or actress is hiding behind the snowy picture'. _"Dean, there is no way in hell that is Shannon Docherty, it's 'Running Man' so it's gotta be Schwarzenegger."_ Although the game is generally more entertaining when they've been drinking first.

Sam doesn't argue when Dean mentions he might pay a visit to the bar down the street, just to shoot pool, not to get loaded, not when there's a hunt waiting. Sam trails back to their motel room alone, lies down on sheets that still smell of stale sweat despite the industrial strength powder they've been washed in, and falls asleep, fully dressed, feet hanging off of the end of the bed.

The afternoon passes like many others have before it and like many more still to come. Dean drinks a couple of beers and, with his tongue practically dripping honey, sweet-talks a pretty young thing into a fun and frolics session in the back of the Impala. Sam sleeps, restlessly, twisted in his sheets like a corn roll, lost in dreams plagued with images of Jess, fire and death. The three walk hand in hand now, seeing any one of them automatically means thinking of the others.

Shafts of hazy orange light from a rapidly setting sun tiptoe through the motel room window and pad lazily across Sam's face. He opens his eyes, yawns and stretches, rolls onto his side. Her soft blonde curls are spread, fanned out across the pillow next to him. She's wearing her white nightgown—the one with the lace trim, that's short and tight—and makes her look like an angel, albeit a naughty one. She's still asleep and he lifts his hand, tender fingers tracing the contours of her face.

Abruptly, Jessica's eyes fly wide open and she's no longer laid at his side but on the ceiling above him, pinned and bleeding. Sam gasps and gurgles as his lungs heave for air. Her huge eyes rapidly pool with tears—and a look of pure horror. Her mouth opens, gaping, as she whispers, _"Why, Sam?"_

Sam jerks awake, bolts upright and pants breathlessly, like an eighty-year-old with chronic emphysema. It takes him a few minutes to slow his breathing to a point where he no longer feels like he's about to hyperventilate himself to death. A few more minutes and his eyes have scanned the entire expanse of the motel room. A normal motel room. No Jess burning on the ceiling, just a faint water stain and swirled patterns embedded in the plaster. No Dean but Dean's safe and sound, simply drinking beer or getting laid somewhere. Sam lets another handful of minutes trickle though his fingers before he lifts himself off of the bed and lurches into the bathroom, flicking on the light as he leans over the toilet bowl, preparing to say hello to his McDonalds lunch for a second time in the same day.

XXX

Dean turns his key in the lock and pushes the door ajar with a gentle shove. The two cold beers he has enjoyed have loosened him up nicely and the young woman he's spent most of the afternoon with has helped loosen him up a hell of a lot more.

He stands still for a moment holding up the doorframe, wanting to test the water before he goes ahead and jumps right in. This particular good mood is too fine an occasion to waste and so Sam is the yardstick he'll measure his decision by; 'bitchy little brother' Dean goes back out, 'well rested affable little brother' Dean goes in.

The first thing he sees is Sam tapping away at his laptop and Dean's Cheshire Cat grin wavers. He hadn't realized until this moment just how badly he had been hoping to find Sam asleep, for his little brother to have gotten himself some much needed rest. But Sam's a big boy now and Dean's not the 'tucking in at night' type so he lets the issue drop without even having vocalized it.

Seeing as Sam hasn't instantly shot Dean down with a grumble fired in his direction, Dean rolls into the room, bringing instant chaos to Sam's order. He removes his jacket and throws it towards one of the chairs but misses and it lands in a heap on the floor. He kicks off his boots so that they fly like guided missiles towards Sam's head. Sam doesn't even look away from his laptop, he simply ducks and the shoes thud against the far wall. Dean hurls himself onto his bed, settling there, propped up by his pillows like King Canute. "You dig anything up?"

Sam glances over, his face lit by the bluish glare of the laptop screen, and he looks old in the sickly wan light. Exhausted and haunted, a look he's been carrying for a good few months now, since leaving Stanford, since Jessica. "Kinda. There's a whole heap of folks meant to have been buried on that site, Dean. And the majority would have been buried in unmarked graves, paupers' graves."

_Awesome_, Dean thinks, discouraged. "Anything else we could go on?" And yet ever hopeful.

"What, besides the hundred plus unmarked graves? There are no real burial records and any one of them could be a restless spirit but...there was a murder."

Dean's eyebrows rise, moderately interested now. "On that site?" Dean prompts.

"In the McDonalds."

"No way." _Jackpot!_

"A young woman, Melissa Hornby, in 1996. She had an argument with her boyfriend and half a dozen witnesses saw him blow her away. Case like that, with all those witnesses, they threw the book at him, he's serving life in prison."

Dean puffs up his cheeks and blows out a breath, long and exaggerated. Imagines the scene; the bustling McDonalds filled with loved-up couples, students, families with young children all busily consuming their food and then _'bang' _— some happy freakin' meal all right. "Man, I knew your geek research superpowers would come in useful one day."

"They come in useful most days, Dean."

Dean grins, amused, but doesn't disagree. "Well, then, let's gear up and go hunt this sucker down."

They prepare in silence. Dean checks their weapons, efficiently and with undivided concentration because Dad had always entrusted him with that particular job and Dad might not be here right now but Dean will be damned if he doesn't do the job and do it well. Even from a young age, Dad had made sure it was hammered home to Dean that a misfiring weapon could cost him his life, _could cost him Sammy's life__,_ but that would never be allowed to happen, not on Dean's watch. Dean works busily, frowning once at the sluggish slide on one of the semi-automatics before proceeding to swab out a build-up of crud with a rag.

Sam rummages through their packs pulling out a large container of salt picked up during their last supermarket visit. Once that's crossed off the list he starts gathering together items required for a banishing ritual because like it or not, unless they are planning on packing a JCB digger truck, there is no way they are getting to salt and burn bones which are buried deep beneath a garish tiled floor and God knows however many tons of concrete.

With that done, Sam disappears into the bathroom to take a hot shower. By the time he comes out, feeling half human again, Dean is seated on his bed, still cleaning weapons but with a huge pizza box open in front of him and a blob of melted cheese stuck to his chin. The pizza smells good and Sam's suddenly hungry, especially considering he ate lunch but then didn't. "We eat, then we hunt," Dean mumbles around a mouthful of mushed up pizza, although it sounds more like "mu-meat, hun we munt," to Sam.

"Tell me there are some vegetables on that pizza?" Sam asks, promptly wishing he hadn't as a sliced mushroom pings off his forehead. "Thanks, Dean."

-0-

_  
Please review and let me know what you think._

_Part Two to follow shortly._


	2. Chapter 2

_Huge thanks to everyone who's been reading and tasty cookies to those who have taken time out to leave a review. _

_Thanks also to Adara-chan67 for being an utterly fantastic beta...I'm still working on your hat, Adara, it never ceases to amaze me what you can make with newspaper and sticky back plastic these days._

_All warnings & disclaimer as Part One. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own._

**Burger Bars and Bullet Wounds - Part Two.**

Dean's an observant guy. He likes to think he can tell real boobs from fake ones with just one quick glance, although the squeeze test is usually the real clincher. He knows his car like it's an extension of himself. Knows the way the engine should sound when she's in top form, knows the exact rattle which means the gasket heads are ready for cleaning and the splutter she makes when the oil needs changing.

Dean also knows Sam and although Stanford has changed Sam, in lots of ways, his little brother is exactly the same as he was before his hunger for normal and Dad's heated words packed him off on a bus to California.

Sam is still sharp as a tack, even at the crack of dawn when, more often than not, Dean wakes up with a taste in his mouth like something nasty had died on his tongue and with a head which feels like some sadistic little fucker has been using his skull as a bongo.

Sam still knows his Beretta from his elbow, he still knows the best way to decapitate a Gallaragoon (_with a blessed scythe, anything else and the tricky son of a bitch will regenerate its head_) and he still speaks Latin like it should have been his first language.

The changes in Sam aren't glaringly obvious, except perhaps to Dean. Before Stanford, the brothers hunted in perfect synchronization, to the point where Dean could anticipate Sam's next move before Sam even had the chance to make one and now, well, the years apart have splintered their fraternal connection somewhat.

When they arrive at the darkened and deserted McDonalds, with the alarm smoothly disarmed and the lock picked (_5.2 seconds, Dean's personal best_) and without any hesitation, Sam pushes the door open and swiftly disappears inside the eerily quiet restaurant.

"Hey," Dean growls, waving his arms like he thinks he's an air traffic controller and Sam's an errant Boeing 747.

"What?"

"I always take point when Dad's not with us, _you know that_."

"Dean, I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need protecting."

"Oh, I'm not trying to protect you; it's just that I can't see shit with 10 foot of gigantor bitch blocking my view. We do things like we've always done or not at all and that means I take point. It's my God-given big brother right."

"Okay, fine." Sam's eyebrows huddle together as his forehead wrinkles and yeah, Dean really does know that look too. That _Dean, you're full of shit look_. Dean smirks; he's missed that look.

They move forward with Dean pushing out at the front this time, guided only by a piss poor beam of dim yellow coming from his flashlight—and his natural sense of direction, of course. His shotgun is loaded with salt rounds, poised and ready. Sam follows, carrying his own shotgun and a rucksack on his shoulder.

Dean doesn't speak. He stops, turns and motions at Sam, using one of the many cool hand signals that their dad taught them, which translates into _we split, do a sweep and meet back here_ but looks more like Dean is trying to swat away a fly.

Sam groans, wondering exactly why Dean thinks part of the Stanford enrolment process must have involved a memory-wipe which has rendered his little brother incapable of understanding how to hunt. Dean gives Sam another hand signal, one their dad didn't teach them and Sam gives him back a grin, white teeth glinting in the darkness before he sets off alone in the direction of the back kitchen.

Dean takes on the main seating area of the fast food joint. He walks cautiously between the many plastic tables and chairs and the occasional artificial Yukka plant. He's well prepared. Besides the sawn-off shotgun, he has a Smith & Wesson .45 tucked into the waistband of his jeans and a solid iron Natuto throwing knife in his boot.

Dean swivels himself round in a full 360° when he detects a sudden temperature drop, the way all the warmth rapidly leaches out of the air in mere seconds which is all it takes for Dean to start breathing out mini clouds of white vapor and for tiny goose pimples to pop up on his arms. He can't see a thing but does feels a sharp tug at his belt and a cold shiver runs down his spine as icy fingers make momentary contact with the skin at the small of his back.

Irony can be a cruel bitch sometimes and that's exactly what Dean begins to appreciate when the butt of his own semi-automatic smashes into the side of his temple. As he plummets in a vertical belly flop towards the floor, Dean gets a fleeting glimpse of his attacker. A spirit, flickering in that irritating as hell 'shitty reception' way and virtually soaked with bright red blood and for once, just once, Dean would like to see a ghost wearing a Hawaiian shirt or sucking on a candy cane or anything which doesn't make him feel like puking the second he claps eyes on them.

But this spirit isn't the woman they've been hunting—unless when Melissa was alive she was one damn ugly lady with biceps thicker than a tree trunk and a 12 o'clock shadow. _Holy crap, there's more than one ghost!_ Dean's internal musings are abruptly cut short as his face meets with linoleum and his lights go out.

Dean's out of it for ten minutes tops, long enough for a whopper of a headache to have started pulsing away behind his eyes when he finally comes to his senses and pulls himself upwards, churning out a rapid succession of curse words. On very unsteady legs, he staggers off in the direction Sam had gone. His first thought being to warn his brother that there's more than one Casper 'the freaking unfriendly ghost' haunting the building.

XXX

"Help me."

A woman's voice, soft and pleading. Sam lowers his shotgun and squints, desperately trying to make out the dark shadowy figure, which has just materialized in front of him. Her spectral image isn't fully formed; hazy edges frame an adult female shape, which is fading in and out. If Sam looks hard enough he can see clear through her semi-transparent chest to the giant double-door fridge freezer behind her. "It always hurts. Help me," she begs again.

Sam wants to ask _how?_ and _what hurts?_ but the words stick in his throat as he watches her ghostly figure become increasingly solid. Her translucent skin starts to take on the appearance of ordinary pink flesh and Sam has to suppress the irrational urge to reach out his fingers and touch her cheek to find out if her skin is warm or as cold as he knows death should be.

She's only young, early twenties if that; her hair is long and blonde. She looks a little like Jess, but she's not Jess. Jess's face had been more angular—heart-shaped, Sam had always thought. Jess's lips were fuller and she'd had, what Sam believed, was the cutest nose he had ever seen. This dead girl isn't Jess but for Sam, she may as well be.

He's been finding reminders of Jess everywhere of late. Her favorite song blaring out of a convenience store radio. Stopping to pick up a newspaper and standing for long stretched out minutes staring at the cover of the exact women's magazine Jess had a subscription for. Sam knew things were getting excessive when he couldn't look at the sky without seeing her face in the cotton-like cumulus clouds or amongst star constellations. And then there were the nightmares...

"You—you shouldn't be here." Sam whispers, forcing himself to push the words past clenched teeth.

The girl locks eyes with him and a small sad smile plays on her lips. "He won't let me leave."

Sam pauses and his brain does a double-take at her words. _Who won't?_ But he realizes then that she's not looking at him anymore; she's staring at something over his shoulder. He turns in time to see another ghost, a huge guy—standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of blood—holding a gun, _Dean's gun_, pointed at the girl.

XXX

For Dean—as is what always happens whenever Sam is the one in danger—time slows to a near stop. Dean's senses become heightened, sharpened to a point where he could snap a person's neck with one hand while shuffling a deck of cards with the other. But as he hurtles into the industrial sized McDonalds kitchen in time to see the same male ghost who pistol-whipped him, fire _his_ gun, for all his training and experience, Dean can't stop his dumb shit little brother from doing the unthinkable.

Sam yells out, something thunderous and rich with ferocity but unintelligible to Dean, and steps in front of the barrel. As the gun spits out a bullet, Dean watches aghast as the slide moves with flawless ease. He'd cleaned that gun tonight, cleaned it so it could be used to kill his brother. It takes all of Dean's willpower to stop himself from completely losing it right then and there.

"NO!" Dean fires off a round from his shotgun, the salt loaded bullet hits the ghost who instantly evaporates with a deafening bellow in a flare of sparks and wildly twisting spirals of ethereal mist.

Dean tears across the kitchen, keeping his shotgun pointed at the girl but she doesn't move, just stares at his brother with wide gaping eyes. Sam is sprawled out on his back; a hand pressing down against his side and Dean gently lifts his brother's shirt. He mops away blood with the cuff of his sleeve and can see that Sam has a fair sized chunk of his flesh missing from just below his ribcage. The bullet has taken a slice out of his brother but had it been another inch to the left, Dean has no doubts that Sam wouldn't be breathing.

Sam's eyes are squeezed tight in pain and Dean takes off his outer shirt, tying it in a makeshift bandage around Sam's middle and trying not to flinch when Sam hisses and digs his fingers into the skin of Dean's forearm. "You stupid bastard. Of all the brainless, goddamn, irresponsible..."

"Jess." Sam mutters and that shuts Dean up fast.

Dean looks over at the girl, who's still standing watching them, as though Sam leaking blood all over the floor is some obscure Cirque de Soleil act. She's plainly not Jess but the similarities are clear to him and must have been as obvious as a slap in the face for his still grieving brother.

"Come on, we're getting you out of here."

"We have to help her."

"She's dead, Sam, she's a little past the point of help."

"She was trapped; he's been keeping her here. I think...maybe, making her relive her murder."

"Who's been keeping her here? Are you telling me that dude covered in blood was her boyfriend? Her killer?" None of this is making sense; Dean sighs heavily, exasperated and worn-out and downright loathing the sight of Sam's blood on his hands. "I don't understand, you said her boyfriend was in prison. Shouldn't he be busy being some homeboy's bitch by now?" But then it clicks and Dean remembers thinking he caught a glimpse of a sliced wrist on the male ghost. "I don't believe it...he's dead, her boyfriend. He's killed himself and now he's making her suffer all over again. Damn it."

"But we've broken the loop. I think she might be free now, we just need to point her in the right direction."

"Sammy..." Dean begins but Sam's eyes are glassy, pain-filled and Dean seriously needs to go out and do something manly when all this is over because his kid brother has got him so whipped right now. "Okay, all right, just quit looking at me like that."

Dean stands up and walks towards the girl, holding out his hands, showing her he's unarmed. "Listen, you should move on...go towards the light...or, you know, whatever." He waves a hand, like he's trying to shoo away a stray mutt that has been begging for table scraps.

The girl's eyes fill with tears, and she swivels her head as though searching for someone. Much to Dean's surprise there is a light, which seems to pulse around her, as it grows stronger. It's brilliant white, beautiful and so dazzling Dean has to scrunch his eyes closed. The girl is gone when he opens them again.

XXX

Dean trundles inside the motel room and shoves the door closed behind him. He's sweaty and itching to get out of his dirty clothes. New graves are particularly gross. As is the sight of a fresh corpse, which has started to become bloated in what is one of many lovely decomposition stages...and the smell...Dean will never again complain about the pansy flowery shit his brother practically bathes himself in after he's finished shaving.

Dean sits down on the edge of Sam's bed and starts rubbing at his stubbled chin in a way which immediately signals to Sam that his brother's got something to say which he's having trouble getting out. "So, we going to talk about it?" Dean manages finally.

"I wanted to save her; I didn't want her to suffer anymore. It's as simple as that."

"That's pretty damn far from simple Sammy. You can't go pulling stunts like that. I know how you felt about Jess."

"How I felt? What about how I still feel? How I'll always feel. Jess was murdered Dean, I didn't stop loving her just because she died." Sam sinks back against his pillow, his breathing coming in harsh pants.

"Getting yourself killed isn't going to bring her back."

"I know that, okay? I know." Sam is wearing that same sad, resigned, expression on his face which makes Dean's gut twist.

Yet Dean knows that in true Winchester fashion they've mended things for now. A patch-up job made with denial, avoidance and strong emotions conveyed by shared looks not spoken words. "You want something to eat?" Dean asks, changing the subject with the sudden desire to find words which will stop his brother from looking like that.

"You offering to fetch take out?"

"Yeah, after I've showered all the dead guy gunk off me. You can choose too, just not McDonalds."

"What about soy burgers? There's meant to be a great organic vegan place near here."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "When I said choose, I meant food, as in something we can actually eat. Anyway, that's still a burger...kind of, I guess, isn't it?"

Sam sits up with a wince, careful not to jostle his heavily bandaged side. "I don't believe it; you've actually sworn off hamburgers? Maybe I should get shot in a few other fast food joints and we'd have your cholesterol levels down in no time."

Dean snorts and starts peeling off his jeans. "My cholesterol is just fine." Dean pulls off his t-shirt and prods at his stomach. "See, Sammy, all muscle and anyway I think I saw a Pizza Hut on the way into town."

Sam wants to complain about how he's forgotten what food not dripping in grease tastes like but his side aches, he's tired and a pizza does sound good so he nods his head. Dean gets up and wanders into the bathroom and even with the door closed Sam can still hear his big brother's voice over the sound of running water.

"If you're lucky, I might even fetch you a veggie pizza…Freak."

-end-


End file.
